Rhythm
by Writer of a Thousand Colors
Summary: Music is what defines us, makes us human, and charts our journey through life and love. It's only suitable it does Nations the same favor.
1. Chapter 1

{Break Your Heart}

Matthew can see why Francis is called a heartbreaker.

Others had come to Matthew's land before Francis had. Iceland's people first, led by the very small Nation himself. He had amaranthine eyes brighter, clearer and far more beautiful than his – they glowed in his pale face, set off by the snow. Matthew had been fascinated – Iceland was like a smattering of snow in the wind; fragile and wild. He held a sword like it was an extension of his arm, led men who looked so much older than him like he had been in charge all his life.

_Vinland_, he called Matthew. He'd liked the sound of that – it was a pretty name, delicate and beautiful with promises of wilderness unseen. Iceland explored his land for a while, and Matthew let him, content to tag along with this fascinating not-a-child who was so much older than his appearance.

But then Iceland left, and Matthew didn't see him again for a while.

Then another Nation-child came, accompanied by men armed with shining swords that flashed silver in the morning light. This one, unlike Iceland, did not immediately appear older than his years – to Matthew, he seemed to be but a real child. He was fine-boned, with wispy brown hair and enormous eyes as dark as the dirt in the riverbanks, and skin the same shade of brown as the wood of an oak tree in spring. He was a curious creature – he smiled all the time and in the short while he was there Matthew never saw him shed a tear.

But the child left before Matthew could even learn his name.

And then there was Spain and Portugal – they had to have been twin brothers like him and his southern counterpart, they looked so alike. Tall, wiry to the point of frailty and excess energy, with thick, curly rich mahogany brown hair and summer-grass green eyes, there were few differences between them – their languages, for one, though even that was similar to the point of almost being the same. They were older than Iceland and the other child – Matthew guessed that they had been Nations for longer and had had much more time to grow.

They left too. Matthew wondered if there was something wrong with him, and that was why no one wanted to stay.

Francis, when he arrived, was different than the others in some unnamable way, and that was why Matthew approached him in the first place.

He was slender, like Spain and Portugal had been, but his was more in the way of being healthy and muscular rather than wiry. He was more elegant, with splashes of bright, cheery colors decorating his uniform and an azure ribbon tying back his wavy golden hair. He was a good cook, and smelled like some sweet delicious scent that came from the lands across the ocean, mysterious and yet somehow homey.

He'd been perfectly happy to have Francis there, even if Francis did kill off all of his beavers to make silly hats for fat rich people. Francis told him about the world beyond the lands Matthew had explored, lands with people with skin so dark it was nearly black, lands where people wore clothes that shimmered like the rainbow. Fascinating tales where anything was possible and the world was one's oyster – Matthew had lapped them up like the delicious wine Francis once brought with him.

But then Francis lost the Seven Years War, and suddenly, he couldn't take care of Matthew anymore. There were tears in his azure eyes – the same color as the ribbon that had tied his hair back all those years ago when they had first met – as he handed Matthew over to a man who smelled like burned goods and salt, tobacco and rainwater, with eyebrows bigger than Matthew's still baby-tiny hand.

And Francis wasn't there any more. Even in the modern day, Francis is always busy with someone other than Matthew – busy talking, laughing, dancing, being. Francis had other colonies after Matthew, other Nations who were surely more talkative and witty and generally better than Matthew.

Francis was the first to really see him, but now, he's one of the last to notice the glaringly obvious fact that he's crushing Matthew's heart in slow motion.

...

{Something Left to Give}

Francis occasionally wonders if the world still has magic.

When he was a young Nation who's view of the world was limited to his shores and the horizon against the waves, so far off, the world had everything in store. There was mystery – why did things fall when you dropped them? Was the world really flat? There was magic – fire bursting up in forests without sparks, him and the other Nations, people who were people without being people.

Over time, as his people built boats and drew maps and learned about concepts such as _gravity_ and _heritable traits_, the world still seemed endless, wonderful, enchanting. As he explored lands far away, filled with people who spoke in garbled tongues, people who wore no clothes or people who mutilated their bodies in the strangest of ways – the world's wonder lessened slightly. There were explanations for things: people spoke in garbled tongues because they had never heard the purity of French before, they wore no clothes because it was too hot for them, they stretched and mutilated their bodies because of their heritage.

And then he met Matthew.

And the world had magic again.

The boy was sweet, genuine in a way most people were not. Francis was used to the tricks and schemes of the French court – power plays, snide remarks that could make or break someone, bed-hopping and scandals, fakery and lies.

Matthew was different. Angelic, naïve in a way only children could be, he brought the spark of awe and wonderment back to the world. Petite, with big lilac eyes and a gentle smile, he was someone who hadn't yet been corrupted by the messy affairs of politics like Europe was, someone who still believed everything could change for the better in a moment.

Even four hundred years later, Matthew still has that touch, that smile, that brings all Francis's amazement of the world and curiosity back to the foreground. Matthew is peaceful, amiable, with a kind word for anyone and a constant half-smile plastered to his face, always alert and ready to do something.

When he sees Matthew, Francis can remember that yes, the world still has magic and something incredible left to give him.

...

{Another Love Song}

It never fails to astonish Francis how cynical Matthew's views of romance and sweet nothings whispered in ears late at night in front of roaring fires are.

Hormones, he says without a touch of disdain, though his lips curl at the edges like he smells something nasty. Hormones that evolved to make the human race seek out mates so their genes can be passed along to the next generation. Love is a chemical cocktail; nothing more.

He never looks bitter or weary when he says this, like some people do. He merely looks pleasantly amused, light catching at his wavy golden hair and making his dark blue eyes – so dark blue that they appear to be violet – glow. He looks like a polite college student, someone with his whole life ahead of him – someone with time to fall in love, marry, grow old.

Bu Nations don't grow, don't marry, and Matthew doesn't believe in love.

Matthew gets that amused look on his face when he hears a love song blasting out of the radio, lips turning up into a sweet half-smile, but Francis knows that what he is thinking is anything but sweet. Matthew is too bitter for one so young, and this saddens Francis, for someone as gentle, kind and easy-going as Matthew deserves something like the wonderful rush that love brings.

"Don't you want to know what falling so hard and fast that you can't stop yourself feels like?" he asks Matthew one day over a friendly dinner of grilled salmon and fine wine in Francis's country home, the sun sinking low over the horizon and Matthew glowing orange-gold in the gloom, outlined by the dying light.

Matthew's lips quirk as he sips at his white wine, eyes dancing. "You make it sound like suicide in slow motion," he comments, gently placing the glass down with a quiet clink and picking up his fork. "On a completely unrelated subject, the fish is delicious." The sky is darkening to the same shade of indigo as Matthew's eyes, the sun glowing dark orange-red as night suffocates it.

"Don't change the topic," Francis scolds him mildly, shifting his green beans around his plate, hoping Matthew doesn't notice the way he pushes them as far away from his body as possible. "True love is nothing like suicide."

"I thought that love brought the willingness to sacrifice yourself to save the other," Matthew replies as he spears a green bean with a elegant flick of his wrist, rubbing it in a patch of melted butter so it shines dully in the light. "If that isn't suicide, I don't know what is. It's a exercise in madness, falling in love. Even you've got to admit that." He chews slowly, watching Francis with a ancient, omniscient look on his face.

Francis mashes his salmon with the back of his fork, tucking a strand of wavy hair behind his left ear with his other hand. He has that thoughtfully guarded look he always get when they enter topics that make him uncomfortable, make him want to jump to his feet and run run run 'til he can't anymore.

Matthew grins suddenly, and it is a wild one, insanity tugging on the corners of his lips and animalistic in it's ferocity. His eyes are ablaze with something not-Matthew – not humble, not hesitant, not nervous. This is a Matthew who knows he has been underestimated and isn't going to take it any more. Francis edges his chair away from the table. It squeaks against the polished wood, and Matthew whispers, his voice unbelievably gentle considering the harshness of his words, "Love is something stupid, Francis. It leads to betrayal, to anger, to death. Don't bother with it."

He peers down at his plate, eying what remains of his dinner, and the tension is gone, just like that. Francis tries to remember what breathing feels like.

_Too late for me, Matthew, _he muses as he shoves his green beans away from his fish again, _I'm already falling._

_

* * *

_**Author's Note**

**Break Your Heart, Something Left to Give and Another Love Song are all songs you can find on YouTube.**

**_Rythme_ is rhythm in French - this is a sorta companion to Rhythm in that in both these pieces, the titles heading each drabble are the names of the song that inspired that drabble. Really, it was me being lazy and not wanting to write a full one-shot.  
In Another Love Song, I mixed Francis with my best friend, who is a female version of him, and she really dislikes green beans, so that's why he's sorta shoving them around his plate.  
I have a very twisted view on Matthew - I like to imagine him to be this vaguely bitter guy who just smiles and nods when people tell him something he doesn't agree with.**

**Anyway, please comment and tell me how this was. **


	2. Northern Rhythm

{Wonders of the New World}

"They say the streets there are paved in gold," Denmark tells him as they haul the fishing next over the side of the ancient wooden boat. It smells like mildew and salt mist, tinged with the heady reek of fish. The deck creeks under their feet as they lean backwards, against the pull of their full fishing net, and begin to tug it fully on board.

"I don't believe that," Norway says firmly, heaving the last bit over. The deck is filled with flapping fish who flash silver in the sun as they desperately try to get back into the water they need to live. Norway pities them, a bit, but he also knows if he doesn't bring this load home than no one eats that night.

"Gold on the streets isn't practical," he continues, kneeling to pick up the fish to throw them into the rough-hewn crate at the back of the boat. "Why put gold on the streets when you could make it into jewelry, or coins, and ship is somewhere to get money?"

"You're missing the point," Denmark retorts, but there is good humor in his face as he bends down besides Norway, "They have so much gold that they don't know what to do with it, so they cover the streets with it. Anyone can get rich there."

Norway pauses, his hands clutching a wriggling, gasping fish that is clearly entering the final stages of death. "How much of that do you believe?" he asks bitterly, looking Denmark in the eye. "The New World is just a repeat of what we have here, only with more space and more food. Give it five hundred years. It will be the same as here, with people dreaming of a better life elsewhere. They'll have hungry kids and bad-tempered spouses, and everything will be the same as it is now." He wipes a bitter tear from his eye with the back of his hand. "I want to dream too," he breathes, "But reality tears those thoughts away too quickly."

Denmark scoffs, and rips the fish out of Norway's hands, tossing it over his shoulder. It misses the crate, but neither of them notice. "Are you always this cynical?" he demands, planting his hands on his hips and leaning down so he can look Norway in the eye. Clear, cold blue and good-natured brown – even their eyes cannot help but advertise all the differences between them. "Nor, the point is is that the New World is unexplored. We have no idea what's out there, or what kind of land it will become. Maybe the streets aren't really paved with gold, but maybe it's possible to build a better life there. That's the lure of it; don't you see?"

Norway's eyes turn steely gray as he crosses his arms over his chest. "No," he says firmly. "I think everyone's heaping hopes and expectations on this land, and once it turns out to be not what everyone was hoping for there will be no end of heartbreak."

Denmark throws his hands up to the clouding sky, shutting his eyes. "I give up," he says firmly, and spins on his heel to stalk over to the fish crate.

Waves are lapping at the side of the boat with increasing ferocity, and the air is cooling. Night is coming, and they need to head home soon. The fish crate's full; they'll be able to eat well for a week or so and still have enough to trade. With a heady sigh, Norway goes to the helm to direct them home.

Denmark doesn't mention the New World again, but both know the other is still musing on it, and if it really lives up to what people says it is.

* * *

{I Want to Break Free}

He was not ready for any sort of invasion.

He proclaimed his neutrality, yet he is still taken over. There is an irony to this, Norway is sure, but right now he's too furious to see it. His ships and military lasted only a few months against the might of the German army, and it disgusts Norway how easily he'd given in.

His king's escaped to England, and while Norway wishes him well and prays for his safety, he still, at the same time, wishes desperately that his king would have thought to take him with him. He doesn't like to see the German officers in the streets, occasionally joined by Germany himself, who stares at him with cold, dead eyes that are more like chips of ice than the sight organs of someone alive and breathing, hands tight at his side so he looks more like a wooden doll than a person.

Italy comes too, sometimes, and hangs on to Germany's arm, prattling on about something. His voice rings in the chill air, and Norway thinks, with more than a touch of bitterness, that Italy must be a twisted person himself to care so deeply for someone so awful. He resents Italy for his happiness, for his blindness for what Germany is really doing, and he concludes that Italy must be as stupid as he looks to go to these lands that Germany has taken over and yet not see how many people suffer because of it.

Germany takes over his government in the absence of his king. Some of Norway's people - _his children, his people, his lifeblood, why are they doing this? - _join Germany's army. Norway feels a mix of things about this, but he decides on icy anger and heated disgust.

He is prouder of those who go join the Allies and who form the Free Norwegian Forces – at least they are doing something to try and regain their country, trying to beat out the Germans. Norway joins himself, as a human by the name Nikolai, and he tries to pretend he is not immortal, that he is human. Germany told select few of his troops about the personifications of Nations, and Norway is technically not suppose to be allowed to wander on his own, for fear that he will stir rebellion.

The Germans don't know what he looks like, beyond what Germany told him, so he finds that by dying his hair brown, he can easily avoid detection. Strange, how changing of one thing makes him invisible in the eyes of the law.

Germany is there for five years, taking over his country and his resources.

The resistance movement destroys a water plant, and another stockpile of water elsewhere, which sabotages the German nuclear program. Norway feels a strange flush of heady pride when he thinks about this – Germany might have taken his country and his identity, but at least Norway is preventing him from doing it to other people. He helped make it so Germany could not ruin and rule the world with his insane schemes and crazy boss.

His people work with the Allies to free him, especially with England, with the use of their merchant marine ships. The ships help with everything from the evacuation of Dunkirk to the Normandy landings. Norway is grateful to England for his help, of course, but the day when the last of the Germans finally leave he is happier than ever, for he can finally scream it to the sky and not care that people are listening that he is free, now and forever, and to hell with those who don't like it.

* * *

{Why Should I Worry?}

He should know by now, that with Denmark around, there is no such thing as quiet, or peace.

"Why should I worry? Why should I care..."

He's drinking again. His breath smells of bad beer and stale mints; it's hot and heavy on Norway's neck as Denmark drapes himself over the other's shoulders. "I may not have a dime, but I got street savior faire..."

"What does that even mean?" Norway interjects, turning a page on the report his boss sent him. It's something deadly dull, with fancy language and hard to understand explanations. He thinks it's on either foreign policy or trade, but he's not sure. It's not sticking with him. He's going to have to reread it, and Denmark's distracting him by muttering the lyrics of whatever song's he's got running around his head into his blonde hair.

"I have no bloody idea..." Denmark mumbles, then he giggles. It tickles Norway's neck, and he bristles, biting his lip. His nose crinkles up as he gently – _he doesn't want to hurt the oaf, after all, because Denmark's pissed off his ass by this point – _jams his elbow into Denmark's ribcage and pushes him back.

"I need to work," he says sternly when Denmark whines and weaves his arms around him tighter, wrapping them around his neck. He smells like salt water and burnt bread. Norway growls low in his throat and takes a deep breath, trying to regain his composure. "Denmark. I'll do something with you later. Go very far away for right now."

Instead of listening and complying like a normal person would, Denmark rubs his cheek against Norway's golden hair and mumbles, "Why should I worry..."

He pauses then, and Norway can practically hear the gears turning his head. He shuts his eyes to prepare himself – he knows that there will nothing productive being done today now, if Denmark has any say in it.

He isn't surprised when Denmark jerks him up to his feet, pulling him close and spinning the two of them across the room, laughing all the while. Denmark's hair sticks up is messy clumps, looking like he'd attacked it with a weed whacker, and there is the distinctive alcohol flush marring his pale cheeks.

Norway doesn't fight it as they spin, or when they settle into a slow dance, Denmark belting out a song. He's off-key, but it doesn't matter.

"The rhythm of the city, but once you get it down, then you can own this town – you can wear the crown!"

Norway lets himself smile, just a little bit, as he leans his head back into Denmark's chest and shuts his eyes. "Why should I worry..." he whispers to himself, before shaking his head fondly as Denmark begins to howl loudly, still singing his song.

"I'm streetwise, I can improvise...why should I worry?"

He's free, he's relatively happy, he's got a report that he really doesn't want to read sitting on his table. Did he have any reason to worry?

Not really, he concludes, and smiles.

* * *

**Author's Note**

**Songs:**

**Wonders of the New World from Eldorado**

**I Want to Break Free by Queen**

**Why Should I Worry? by Bon Jovi**

**All information on Germany's invasion of Norway is from Wikipedia. Thanks for reading!**


	3. Ritm

{King of Anything}

The first time Ivan kissed him, Ravis's hands were slippery with blood and the world had been tainted with the haze of fear. Wind whipped snow up into a curtain around them, and everything was dull, gray, utterly hopeless. The ground was painted crimson; too many people had been sacrificed to provide some color to the winter's day. Empty eyes stared accusingly at him, so his eyes were clenched shut so he couldn't see their disgust, their hatred.

He clung to Ivan's coat, too cold for his body to obey his orders to push the larger man away, too shocked to do much else but kiss.

Ivan pulled away, and the frigid snow and air stung their wet lips. "I claim Riga," Ivan whispered to him, vodka-scented breath flooding Ravis's senses. "I claim you."

Ravis couldn't do much more than shake and try to avoid the empty eyes staring at him with such loathing. His capital had fallen, his people were dying. There was no way to express what he felt; Ravis wasn't even sure what he was feeling beyond numbness, beyond adrenaline and fear.

The second time Ivan kissed him, Ravis's people were beginning to revolt, and Ravis was struck by the insane, ridiculous notion of defeating Ivan and winning his independence. The giddy feelings the New Year brought must have driven that desire along, and he foolishly wrote in his journal that 1905 would be the year he would finally become his own country, free of rule by anyone other than him.

Ivan kissed him on a balcony of Riga's courthouse as the Russian army fired into the crowd of protesters screaming below them. Ravis counted the pinpricks stinging his skin as his people fell. Seventy three people died in the streets as Ivan bit Ravis's lip hard enough to draw out the iron-sharp taste of blood. Two hundred people were injured as Ivan hissed into Ravis's ears promises of forever, of possession, of control. "You are mine," he said harshly, pulling on Ravis's short, stiff blonde hair so their eyes met, fire meeting hopelessness. "And I will never, ever let you go."

The third and final time Ivan kissed him, Ravis had been yanked out of a chain of proud Baltic people linking hands from stretched from Estonia's capital, to Lithuania's, to Latvia's. The sun was beating down on them, and Ravis's collar of his starchy white shirt was starting to itch from the sweat building up underneath it. He was standing on the steps of a shop in Riga, hands linked with a Latvian shopkeeper and an accountant, across the street from the courthouse where Ivan had kissed him as the streets were repainted with the blood of people only wanting freedom.

Ivan strode up to him, grabbed him by his collar, and smashed their mouths together so hard Ravis's tooth chipped. It was desperate, it was afraid. The kiss tasted of fear, of loneliness, of years of nothing but violence and bloodshed.

"Stay with me," Ivan whimpered into his mouth, and his desperation was tangible.

This time, Ravis had the presence of mind to shove him away. He stumbled back, footing unsteady as Ivan dropped to his knees, face a mask of hopelessness. The shopkeeper grabbed Ravis's right hand, the accountant his left, and Ravis steadied himself, stood tall.

"You are not king of me," he said loudly, drawing strength from his people besides him and around him. "You are no longer king of anything."

...

{Monster}

He's the rat in the maze, the tiger in the cage, the bird with clipped wings – every cliché he can think of. He can't run, can't hide; he's stuck facing the things he wants to avoid forever. Ravis feels trapped, confined, tied down, even as he leans forward to nab another slice of warm chocolate cake from the tray on the coffee table in front of him.

The ivory curtains hang loosely over the huge French windows, hiding the winter's day and fresh white snowfall. The walls glow cheery yellow under the golden light, the couches are a warm autumn red with plump orange pillows piled up at both ends. The room smells of fresh bread and cleaning products – it's all so amazingly domestic, so humble and normal.

Ivan lounges on the coach opposite him, coat unbuttoned, scarf draped around his neck in comforting folds. One hand loosely grips a brown tinted bottle; the reason for Ivan's flush and too-bright amaranthine eyes. Ivan is watching him, contemplating, as Ravis tries to nibble normally on his food. He wishes that the silence wasn't so awkward, so stiff.

"You never come around anymore, Ravis," Ivan says suddenly, taking another swig from his bottle. He peers through thick silver lashes at the smaller Nation, and Ravis feels like a spotlight's been turned on him, like the whole world is focusing on him. His stomach rolls, heaves. He sets the remainder of his cake back on the tray.

"I'm sorry," he says, although he isn't really. He's only here because he must maintain good ties with all of his neighbors, and visiting is a good way to demonstrate a desire to keep relations friendly. "I've been busy with negotiating business with Yao." It's true; he isn't lying, but his stomach still clenches when Ivan's omniscient eyes turn to meet his.

"Really?" Ivan's bottle clinks as he sets it down on the coffee table. "You're trading with Yao? Ah, I suppose I can forgive you for your lack of time, then. Yao has always been hard to deal with." His eyes gleam like poison. Ravis wonders what kind of dealing Ivan had done with Yao, what could make this child-like cruel Nation show such life, such excitement.

"But you know," Ivan continues, reaching across the table to snag a warm apple pastry, "It's very upsetting to me that you leave me alone all the time. Once you are done making business deals with Yao, I expect you to come back to me. Do you understand? I don't like the thought of you leaving me."

Ravis knows he shouldn't have to put up with this. Ravis knows Ivan has no real power over him. Ravis knows this, yet he also sees the bars of the invisible cage surrounding him closing in, pinning him. So all he can do is bow his head and bite his cake, and whisper, "Yes sir," praying Ivan won't see just how much Ravis hates the games they play.

Ivan beams, flopping silver hair falling in front of his too bright eyes. He takes another swig of the tinted bottle. The homey scent of fresh bread is becoming overpowered by the stench of vodka, so strong that it makes Ravis's head reel just from smelling it. "I'm so glad you understand," Ivan sings, and he jumps to his feet, snatching the tray off the table and skipping off to the kitchen to dispose of the remains of their snacks.

Ravis's hands are shaking. He balls them into fists, shoves them in his pockets. Ivan has the power here. All Ravis can do is hide just how much control the other has.

...

{Apologize}

Ivan does feel sorry, sometimes. Sorry for the pain he's inflicted on others, sorry for the blood he's shed, sorry for the misery he has caused. His past is painted with crimson, stained with scarlet, retouched with vermilion; his hands are not only wet, they are soaking to the point where they will never be dry.

He is sorry for acting the way he did, sorry that the actions he took now make people stare at him with hesitation, with disgust. He is sorry every time Toris flinches away from him, every time Eduard gives him that silent, reproachful glare, every time Ravis seems to chew his words over before he speaks, like he is afraid how Ivan will react to what he has to say.

Ivan is frightened by the prospect of being alone, of having terrified enough people that everyone will go away and leave him by himself, leave him to icy winters and depressed people, hopelessness and loneliness. So although he hates it, he reaches out and grabs, takes what he can, intimidates people into standing by him so he doesn't have to face the silence unaided, unheard.

He is drawn out of his reverie by the clink of a delicate porcelain cup against the smooth oak of his coffee table. Ravis is getting to his feet, brushing his black pants free of pastry crumbs. He looks drab and cheerless in his dark clothing; the only splash of color comes from the light green scarf wrapped around his neck. Ivan recognizes it as one of Toris's. He wonders what it is like to have siblings that force warm garments onto you as you leave your house, who care enough to make sure you are prepared to deal with the difficulties of the day, whatever they might be.

"Are you leaving already?" His voice is steady, strong as the vodka he clutches in his hand like a lifeline. Ravis nods curtly. His movements are brisk, efficient, tense. His fear is tangible, although he is doing a remarkably good job of trying to hide it.

"Toris and I are heading to Eduard's home for dinner," Ravis explains, folding up his napkin and tucking it into his empty tea cup. "We have to be punctual, because Eduard gets annoyed when we get there late and the food's gone cold and then he lectures us about wastefulness."

"You will come back, _da_?" He can't hide the hope in his voice, and he knows it's pathetic how childish he sounds, like he is making sure his mommy will return from going to the supermarket.

Ravis's violet eyes flash with something unreadable before his expression settles back into it's customary mask of apprehension, of fear. "Maybe," he says, picking up the tray and heading towards the kitchen. Ivan listens to the rattle of plates being placed in the sink, the clunk of the cake tray being set down gracelessly on the counter.

Ravis returns in a moment, and he crosses the room to open the closet door, taking out his brick red wool coat. He hesitates as he wraps it around his shoulders, and glances over at Ivan. Ivan's cuckoo clock hanging on the wall ticks loudly. Ravis's mouth tightens for a second, and then he mutters, "Thank you for the wonderful food," before he is gone and the door is slamming shut behind him.

Ivan watches the navy blue tapestry hanging on his door swing from the force of the blow. He takes another sip of vodka. It's bitter, and burns in his mouth.

"Is it too late to apologize?" Ivan murmurs.

The clock ticks. The cuckoo comes out and chimes the hour.

Ivan finishes his vodka.

* * *

**Author's Note**

**King of Anything - Sara Barelleis**

**Monster - Lady Gaga**

**Apologize - OneRepublic featuring Justin Timberlake**

**A friend of mine on deviantART requested a Russia/Latvia fic. However, after reading their history, I can't characterize Ravis as weak and pathetic, and I physically cannot have any version of romance exist between him and Ivan. It's seriously impossible. There is nothing sweet about their past, no redemption at all.**

**In King of Anything, the first kiss takes place at the time when Russia took Riga, Latvia's capital, because it was militaristically strategic. Russia later gained control of the rest of Latvia. The second kiss occurs during an uprising in Riga during the year 1905. Russian soldiers fired into a crowd of Latvians protesting the Russian presence. 73 died, and over 200 were wounded. The last kiss occurs right before the fall of the USSR - in all the Baltic countries, people linked hands and made a chain that stretched from capital to capital. **

**In Monster, Ravis says he's doing business with Yao, and currently, Latvia and China are negotiating business deals, so I just wanted people to know that this is real.**

**If you liked the story, please comment and tell me so; reviews work wonders for my work ethic. Meaning, when I get reviews, I actually write more. **


	4. The Beat on Both Sides of the Atlantic

{So What}

"I think," Alfred says slowly, like saying it any faster will mean that lightening will strike him, like the world will crack under his feet, "This is some sort of build up from over two hundred years of acting like you've got a stick up your ass suddenly imploding and you'll regret this all within a week."

Arthur flips him the birdy with one hand, fiddling with the tuning of his beautiful electric guitar with the other. Bright pink hair doesn't really suit him; he always looked better in green and some shades of purple. Alfred doesn't say this, however – he knows how much pride Arthur takes in the styling of his neon pink mohawk.

"I didn't come here to get a fucking lecture," Arthur says, placing the guitar next to him on Alfred's baseball decorated bedspread and looking up at the taller Nation. He'd gotten a lip piercing sometime recently; the little silver ball catches the light and draws Alfred's attention to it.

"Remind me why you crashed my place again," Alfred replies, leaning on his dresser in what he hopes in a nonchalant manner. It is unnerving, really, how different Arthur looks when he's not wearing a suit and has on too-tight black leather vest and pants, chains wrapped around his waist and a studded dog collar around his neck. This isn't really Arthur, Alfred knows, and he knows that once England's punk phases passes Arthur will go back to being irritable, angry and will deny that he ever dyed his hair pink and wore leather pants in public.

"My prime minister kicked me out of my office for the day," Arthur says distractedly, plucking at the high E string on his guitar. "Apparently, he does not appreciate the fine music of the Sex Pistols." His mouth twists into a mischievous half-grin, and his bright green eyes glow brighter for the briefest of moments.

"Also, you're coming with me to the Sex Pistol concert tonight," he adds, standing and stretching his arms up over his head. The leather vest rides up, showing his flat stomach. He's gotten a belly button piercing too; this one far larger and gaudier than the one on his lip.

"Do I have a say in this?" Alfred asks drily, pushing his glasses further up his nose with one finger so his whole room is in focus. Arthur snorts, rubbing at his vivid hair with one hand. The spikes stick up even more so, and Alfred briefly wonders if he could stick an apple on one of the points; they look so strong.

"Course you don't have a say," Arthur tells him, placing his hands on his hips, and for a moment Alfred can see straight-laced, gentlemanly Arthur looking at him. "You need to learn what real music is," Arthur continues, raising an eyebrow and daring backtalk, "Not that trash you listen to."

"Because the Sex Pistols is _so_ classy and elegant."

"Exactly. Looks like you're learning already. Good; I was afraid you'd be as slow in this area as you are in the rest of life." Arthur's smirk is borderline predatory, and his eyes are glowing brilliant green again.

"That was unnecessarily cruel," Alfred says, twisting his lips downwards into a pout.

"But true." Arthur's smirk grows even wider. Alfred decides he can live this this new, wild Arthur, if only for a little bit, and he'll say "so what" to the world and have some fun with all of England's punks and deal with the aftermath later.

...

{This Is How It Goes Down}

Francis wonders sometimes if Arthur knows how transparent he is with his emotions. Arthur wears his heart on his sleeve, puts his thoughts on his face for all to read – he should know better than that; Arthur was the one who taught Francis that showing emotions was something that could get a person killed, back in the days of knights and crusades.

They're drinking together in Arthur's drafty living room, like they like to do sometimes. They have a meeting tomorrow, but they're both experienced drinkers, so it's not like they'll get a hangover. Rain is drumming against the roof; the sky is velvet dark and black beyond the water-streaked windows. There is a fire dying behind the grate, embers fading to a soft orange. Arthur's hair is messy, and he looks oh-so-weary.

He takes a sip of his rum, contemplates the glass, then takes a deeper drag. "Alfred is courting Kiku," he says after a moment, swirling the remainder of his drink around the beautiful crystal cup. His eyes are dark, sad. Francis takes a sip of his rich red wine.

"Is he serious about it?" Francis asks, tilting his head to the side so he can better study the other. Arthur hesitates, thinks, shrugs. He glances towards the fire, and with a heavy sigh, gets to his feet long enough to toss another log onto the pile. Brilliant orange sparks crackle and fly as Arthur settles himself back into his worn red loveseat.

"Who knows," he says moodily, gulping down the remainder of his rum and reaching underneath his seat to pull out the rum bottle. He pours himself a generous serving, takes a swig from the bottle, then sets it down behind his seat again. "Before he started with the courting and the sweet talk, he said he wanted to improve business relations with Japan."

"So do you think he's just using Kiku to improve relations with Japan?" Francis asks, flicking a curl of golden hair off his shoulder.

"Possibly. He's not like the kid I raised. He was never that manipulative when he was a child." Arthur purses his lips, studies the ripples in his amber drink. He gives Francis a sideways glance, brilliant green eyes shadowed over and tired. "He's changing. He's different. I never thought he would use people, and people like Kiku no less. Kiku is so kind."

"Kiku is old. He might recognize what Alfred is doing," Francis says. The fire spits out another burst of sparks. They die before they reach the thick carpet. Arthur snorts, leans forward and rubs at his temples with one hand.

"The world is changing, Francis," he murmurs, "And I'm so tired of it. Alfred is changing. Matthew is changing. You are, I am."

"It's called growing up," Francis says drily, taking another long drag from his wine and savoring the heady flavor. This was a good year; he'll have to look for more of it. "We all have to do it sometime."

Arthur's smile is dry, sad. "What happens, happens," he mutters, before tilting his head back and draining the remainder of his glass.

"This is how it goes down," Francis says, "And we can do nothing to change it." It's not comforting, not reassuring, but it's the best he can do. Arthur snorts, rolls his eyes, and pours himself another shot.

...

{Winter Song}

It's cliché. He doesn't like cliché. But it is cliché, something said and done and said a thousand times 'til it's to the point where anyone can predict the ending of the story, the last word, the finale. It's cliché, but it's true – Arthur hates winter.

Arthur breathes on his hands, and his breath clouds up, then fades away as the brisk wind blows it away, scattering the small, delicate fog he created. The gray snow is turning to slush under his feet, slick and nasty; he can tell it will freeze overnight, and in the morning the pavement will be coated with thick, uneven ice. Snow is falling, big fat flakes that will melt the moment the sun pokes its head out behind the overhanging gloomy gray clouds. The crimson scarf wrapped around his neck is itchy. His worn brown coat has a hole on the left elbow, and he can feel the slushy water seeping into his right boot.

Alfred is laughing, arms spread out as he spins in circles on his heel, puffy blue coat hanging open to reveal his bulky scarlet sweater underneath. A sunshine yellow hat is crammed onto his bright golden hair, pieces escaping and flipping up at the tips. His glasses are so fogged over Arthur wonders how he can still see out of them. The merry lights from the shops lining the street opposite them catch at the neon coloring of all of Alfred's clothing; he is more gaudy than a Christmas tree.

Alfred tries to catch a snowflake on his tongue, leaning just far forward enough that it hits his nose instead. He looks surprised at the bead of icy water on the tip of his nose. His eyes cross as he tries to see it clearly, wiping it off with the back of one bare hand.

"We'll have a white Christmas this year," he says happily, spinning on his heel so he can see Arthur. He's walking backwards down the street, hands looped together behind his head. His grin is brighter than snow on a sunny day. Arthur wishes he would watch where he was going; he doesn't want to see Alfred slip and break his neck.

"It's November, you git, with over a month left until Christmas. A snowfall now doesn't predict anything." He sounds bitter. He feels old. His sock is wet, and he kicks at a block of ice like a petulant child.

Alfred laughs again, turning around and slowing his pace so he is stepping next to Arthur. Arthur watches their wet shoes and the tracks they make on the already packed, dirty snow reflecting the light from the chain restaurants. "You'll come over for Christmas, right?" Alfred asks, tucking his hands in his pockets.

Arthur ponders it for a moment. If he doesn't take Alfred up on the offer to spend Christmas at his house, he'll spend it at home, drinking vintage whisky and rum, crying into his glass about how the world hates him and how he is so alone. If he does go, he'll only be able to recall the Christmases he and Alfred had when Alfred was naught but a child, and he'll spend the holiday in silent passive aggression towards his well-meaning host.

"Maybe," he says, choosing to be noncommittal, to leave all the options for misery open so he can take his choice of torture. Alfred smiles contentedly, watching the flurry of snow fall around them.

Thanksgiving isn't over yet, and all of America is prepping for Christmas. It's typical of such a nation, and he should have expected it. Arthur kicks at another block of ice. He says nothing to break the silence, and follows Alfred down the noisy, too-bright street.

...

{I'm Yours}

He can hear the music from the bottom of the driveway.

Arthur hauls his suitcases out of the taxi, stacking them on the sidewalk haphazardly, and pays the driver who keeps glancing at his watch like he has better things to do than wait for Arthur to get all his things out of the car.

There's a soft guitar melody hanging in the still winter air as Arthur tugs his suitcases and his briefcase up Alfred's ridiculously long driveway. Snow crunches underfoot, fresh and crisp. Arthur's breathing hangs in clouds in the icy air.

He opens the door silently, pressing a hand against the bell Alfred hung on the door to silence it. The music is louder here, and it's a warm, lovely tune that reminds Arthur of summer, of warmth, of barbecues and long talks with old friends. His lips are threatening to quirk up into a smile as he heaves his things into the spare bedroom that serves as his home away from home every time he ventures across the Atlantic to visit Alfred.

The song comes to an end, and there's a moment of silence as Arthur sets his old Mac laptop on the desk. It starts up again after a moment, and now he can hear Alfred's rich, off-tune voice joining in with it, singing with abandon and little skill.

He slips down the hallway, keeping an eye out for the younger Nation. The singing seems to be coming from the basement, so Arthur creeps down the stairs as quietly as he can.

Alfred is spinning around his messy, crowded basement, his beautiful calico cat Sophie cradled in his arms as he belts out the lyrics to the song playing. Sophia paws at his face, looking displeased and grumpy, green eyes bordering on fiery gold as she swats at his nose. Alfred pays it no mind as he spins them around again, singing how he will no longer hesitate and how there is no need to complicate things. Arthur finds this amusing; Alfred has the tendency to make things as complicated and confusing as he possibly can.

He settles down on the steps, resting his elbows on his knees. He's smiling now; he can feel his cheeks aching from his ear-to-ear grin. Alfred still has yet to notice him. He brings Sophia closer to his face. She swipes at his nose again, and Alfred smiles and kisses the tip of her soft pink nose.

When the music finally comes to an end, Alfred lifts Sophia over his head as he belts out the last few words. Sophia catches sight of Arthur sitting on the step and lets out a pitiful meow, begging him to come rescue her. Alfred turns around to see who his cat is talking to, and his grin grows bigger. "Arthur! I thought you wouldn't get here for another hour at least!"

The amazing thing about Alfred, Arthur muses, is that most anyone else would be humiliated and embarrassed if someone walked in while they were dancing to a silly love song with their irritated cat. Alfred didn't seem to care, didn't seem to think anything was wrong with showing how much he loved a song and loved his vengeful feline.

"I'm here for the weekend," Arthur says, getting to his feet and beating the wrinkles out of his stiff black pants, "If that is alright with you."

"Oh, of course it is! Now, c'mere – Sophia's done for the day, and I want to dance again." He grabs Arthur's wrist before he can protest, and the same silly love song starts up again. Alfred's hand is dry and warm as he spins them around, singing along to the music. Sophia eyes them carefully before stalking up the steps; Arthur knows she'll be taking revenge later in the form of meowing loudly at some unholy hour in the morning for her loss of dignity.

Arthur knows he's smiling, and he doesn't care if everyone and anyone can see it, because right now he's Alfred's and Alfred's his, they're dancing to a sweet, silly love song and everything is okay with the world.

* * *

**Author's Note**

**So What - P!nk**

**This is How is Goes Down - P!nk**

**Winter Song - Sara Barelleis **

**I'm Yours - Jason Mraz**

**Written as a birthday gift for a friend of mine. My inability to write anything sweet or touching strikes again.**

**Also, my username's been changed from Cry-Wolf-and-Sing to Writer of a Thousand Colors. Sorry if that confuses anyone.**


	5. Ritmus

{Wild Child}

The world moves with her.

Mountains trail behind her footsteps, sprouting up like fields of wildflowers. Gusts of wind powerful enough to level cities stream from her fingers as she gestures at something. A volcanic explosion that could wipe humanity off the face of the map was visible in her clenched, shaking fists. A peaceful snow that could calm the heart of anyone shone when she smiled. Waterfalls crashing onto the rocks sound when she laughs. Her tears brought the silent relief of a heavy rain after a long drought.

Elizaveta was power, was destruction. She was purity, was compassion. She was the Apocolypse and the rising of the new world all in one, and Roderich admired her, adored her, for she held those hypocrises and those incompatible things within her and forced them to get along.

A walk through the lovely streets of his stunning Vienna with Elizaveta makes Roderich wonder why the ground is not trembling from the sheer amount of force radiating from her as she skips along, as she stops to spin on her heel and grin and tell him it is a gorgeous day. He's always too afraid to say she is far lovelier than any day could ever be.

When she rages, he expects proud buildings to crumble like dry gingerbread around them, falling like dying stars to breaking streets as the ground rips itself apart with the strength of her anger. He is always too afraid to admit he wishes his temper inspired the command hers does.

When she sings, he expects her husky, beautiful voice to whip the wild winds of the world into a frenzy, circling around her with such ferocity that she is lifted off the ground and flies away with the music and the power. He is always too afraid to admit that he feels like her song has a spark his never does.

The force of the world, the magic and love and hatred of Gaia, all stuffed into one body of a woman who was really an ancient country, who had seen all the betrayal and adoration the world had to offer her. Roderich feels plain, almost dull and colorless, when he stands by Elizaveta, for she is full of so much life and the movement of the world that she drains the people around her of their own spark as she draws attention to her own spellbinding charms.

She is speaking now. Her voice rumbles like an earthquake. Her footsteps, hindered by sleek black heels, are the shifting of the tetonic plates. "Roderich, where's my sash? I can't find it and it's starting to snow."

He blinks, slowly clearing his mind. She is gazing steadily at him, green eyes as wild as the forests of the Amazon, her chestnut brown hair wavy and as free as a blustery winter night. There is a silent strength in her movements as she adjusts the strap of her slinky midnight black dress covered in a smattering of silver stars.

"Oh..." He pauses, thinks it over for a moment. "You left it in the hallway, near the door." They're running late to the opera. He still needs to comb his hair back. She flashes him a grateful smile. The world wobbles on its axis as she leaves the room, trailing mountain ranges behind her, breezes flowing from her fingers.

The world moves with her. Roderich wouldn't have it any other way.

{Strip Me}

Her people died in roaring rivers of red.

Half of her friends, her children, were taken by the Mongolian invaders. Half of her people's lives were estinguished by a country driven by ambition like candles being blown out by a hurricane sweeping through. Collaterol damage. That was what the deaths of her people were.

Only the strong cities and abbeys with the weapons could defend themselves. Elizaveta hates hiding like a coward, but she was still viewed as a weak woman who should be sitting at home working on her embriodery.

Mongolia is laughing at her from outside the walls of the city as he rides in circles around them, thick mane of frizzy black hair billowing out behind him like a stormcloud, eyes blacker than the pits of hell glinting in his face. She wonders how he could stay on the horse's saddle with all the thick clothes he was wearing; heavy layers of crimson and azure, violet and emerald. "Come battle me, Hungary!" he roars, raising his shining silver sword into the air in challenge. "Be a man! Or will you hide inside like a woman?"

That's right; Mongolia has no idea what gender she is. It probably doesn't matter much; he'll fight and kill her anyway once he learns of her femininity, same as he would if she were a man. Countries were not bound by the same laws of chivalry that guided the humans; the women fought, the men sewed, both cried in rage and planned out bloody revenges with glee.

She picks up her longsword, carefully tracing her fingers along the etchings in the handguard. They are set with fine gold. An enormous emerald crowns the hilt. Deadly beauty and power. The blade catches the slivers of light leaking in through the slits of windows. The soldier standing nearby notices the glint and turns to stare wide-eyed at her, fear painted on his worn face and reflected in his brown eyes.

"My lady," he says in a quiet voice, not sure if speaking to his country honestly and bluntly is something he can be reprimended for, "Are you going to take him up on his challenge?" Elizaveta turns to face him, eyes glowing an eery green in the gloom. The man gulps. His adam's apple bobs up and down.

"No," she responds quietly, "For if I am injured and incacipated, what chance would the rest of you stand? I am one of you, all of you, and none of you. If I am not there, what would be there to stand between him and the destruction of Hungary?"

"Are you human at all?" the soldier bursts out, and then claps his rough hands over his mouth, anxiety at speaking out so bluntly flashing through his eyes. This child, Elizaveta thinks, is not very good at hiding what he is thinking.

"If you strip away my title of Hungary..." she pauses, wondering how she can word this. "I am human," she says at last, "And I am not. Hungary and I are bound together, and yet we are separate." She goes silent for a moment, then snaps, "Why aren't you fortifying the gate? I'll have to tell your commander on you! Now scat!"

The soldier runs as fast as he can without seeming disrespectful. Elizaveta glares at the figure of Mongolia still dancing around and decides she never wants to be controlled by any other country.

{All I Want For Christmas is You}

Roderich is growing weary. He can feel himself slowing down; there is a stiffness to his elbows, a pain in his wrists. His knees pop when he climbs out of bed in the morning. His neck cracks when he twists his neck to shave. Only to be expected; he is over a thousand years old, but Roderich hates feeling like a relic.

His cup and saucer clatter as he places them into his sterile sink. It's snowing outside; his lovely, carefully arranged garden covered in a thick blanket of shimmering white. His house is a bit chilly; he won't turn up the thermostat, and instead dons a bulky green sweater. It's eeriely silent, and all he can hear is the rhythmic thumping from the washing machine in the next room over.

He starts when he hears a song start up, and he turns away from the window, pushing his glasses up his nose as he glides gracefully towards the door. He pauses in the doorframe, running a hand through his silky hair. The music is coming from his living room, and he glides towards it, footsteps quiet.

Elizaveta is there, adjusting the volume on his DVD player by the dresser. She glances up at him as he enters silently. Her face breaks into a warm smile, providing light to the gloomy room. "Hey," she says, straightening up. She's looking particulary pretty. She has a long red sweater-dress hemmed with shiny golden thread over black dress pants on. Her hair's been braided, green ribbons woven in between the locks.

"Why are you?" Roderich asks, crossing his arms over his chest. Elizaveta chuckles lightly, tilting her head to the side.

"It's Christmas Eve, and I was lonely all alone at home with only memories of the past to comfort me," she replies. She heistates, then says, "It was winter when Mongolia invaded me, you know. Snowing, just like it is now."

"You know he can't hurt you anymore. Diplomacy prevents it."

Her laughter is, cliché as it sounds, like chiming bells. "I know," she responds, taking a half a step closer to him, green eyes glowing warmly in the almost sterile light. "But I still want to see you. We're old. We're entitled to our comforts at our age."

"I didn't know I was a luxury item."

"Well, you are to me. Care to dance?" She extends a hand, and he takes it carefully before pulling her close. She smells like spiced cider with cinnamon. He recognizes the song playing now; it's some corny love song Alfred dreamed up years ago about love and couples and needing only the other for Christmas. He's never really understood it before, but Roderich thinks he gets what Alfred means now.

He spins her, and her braids fly out around her face, chestnut bangs falling in front of her face. She's smiling, a tiny warm smile she is feeling with all of her heart. No words are needed between them as they glide like dancers on ice around Roderich's crowded living room.

"Want to give me my present now?" Elizaveta whispers. Roderich glances down at her, wondering at her meaning, before her gentle hand is on his cheek and guiding him to her lips, and then Roderich's feeling an explosion in his heart and age ceases to be important. He is young and wild again, and Elizaveta is giving him that coy smile that means she's plotting something. "Merry Christmas," she breathes.

Roderich kisses her again.

* * *

**Author's Note**

**Strip Me by Natasha Bedingfield  
Wild Child by Enya  
All I Want for Christmas is You by NOTA**

Strip Me is about the Mongolian invasion of Hungary. Half of the two million people living in Hungary at the time were killed. Why I picked Strip Me was that I view the countries as being countries, yet also people. Hungary is aching from the deaths of her people. Elizaveta is just outraged at the killing in general, and she's furious that Mongolia thinks he can get away with it, yet it is "improper" for her to fight. She is a country, yet she is not, and even if Mongolia tries to destroy her, she will live on.

Wild Child and All I Want for Christmas was me reflecting on the Roderich/Elizaveta pairing.  



	6. Mélodie

**{Playing with Fire}**

Matthew does not know how much of herself Francine fakes. Maybe he never will know the real woman, the real France – the one who had longed for power, for freedom, for an empire that would last forever. He does not know how much she resents Alice for her time in the sun as Britannia, how Antonio's successes with South America means most everyone there speaks Spanish.

Yes, she had Vietnam, for a time. And she did influence bits of Canada so much that Matthew can hum love songs into her ear in the silky purr of French. But her empire had been small, and while she is now can be called the fashion capital of the world, even now that is in dispute with Feliciano and Lovina's talents with fabric and cookery.

Matthew does not know the bitter side of her, the side that lusts for power still, and the part of her that just wants her memories of the last thousand years to fade away and never return. Those sides of her are meant to stay hidden and all they would do is break Matthew's heart.

She intertwines their fingers together underneath the meeting table in the World Conference room in England, tries to calm her racing thoughts. Alice gives her a smug smirk across the table, lighting flashing off her wire-rimmed glasses so Francine cannot see the poison green of her eyes.

Alice knows what Francine is thinking as she rests her head against Matthew's shoulder. Francine is almost tempted to make a biting remark about Alfred to her, but she restrains herself. Insults will draw questions – Matthew is perceptive enough to know that Francine is only snappy and cruel when uncomfortable.

Lucky, lucky Alice, who had her time as an empire, who will be remembered as the one who changed the world. She set the _lingua franca_, she gave rise to one of the most powerful countries the world has ever known. Francine tries to comfort herself by remembering that England is not the capital of high fashion and her food is a joke, but those are superficial things that only last for so long.

"Hey," Matthew whispers, breath hot on her ear. She tries not to jump. "You okay?"

"Of course." Lying is like breathing to her, yet another thing Matthew can never understand. "Just remembering last night. I had a weepy phone call from Gilbert – he pissed off Roderich again last night and needed some advice."

Matthew looks unconvinced – eyebrows raised, skin crinkling between his eyes, a skeptical gleam to his pale blue eyes. "But no matter," Francine says quickly as Matthew opens his mouth to speak. "It's just Gilbert being an idiot again." Gilbert and Roderich fight often enough that even if Matthew asks someone it will be believable and Matthew will get no closer to discovering the Francine she wants to keep buried and hidden away from now until forever.

She turns away from Matthew, untangles their hands. She doodles a bit on the notepad in front of her, meaningless little things with no real worth to the world.

She does not like the secrets, nor the lies. But some things are best kept forever hidden, never mentioned, and her bitterness and anger is something she cannot allow to taint Matthew.

**{Europe's Skies}**

Matthew sometimes resents that Francine has so many others close to her, surrounding her light like moths, clustering in close. For her, it is nothing to board a train and zoom off to visit Feliciano, or head north to visit Louise or Alice.

Matthew has no such luxury. The other side of the Atlantic can be a lonely place to be sometimes. Yes, he has his brother to the south, and further down Mexico, and even further all of South America, but Alfred sometimes forgets he is even there when he is caught up in the worries of his borders and his economy and all the matters facing him that he has to deal with right away.

It can be lonely – something he hates his position in the world, his isolation as a northern nation away from most of those who care about him. Alfred tries – he really does – but Alfred is busy and Alfred is powerful, and the daily business of life and politics consumes his time. So he is lonely, and isolated, and he sometimes wishes he was in Europe so he didn't have to feel this way.

His thoughts are broken by the gentle bumping of wheels against ground as his plane glides to a smooth landing.

Something tight loosens in his chest as he steps off the plane and breathes deeply. The airport air is slightly stale and smells like Cinnabons. He's stiff from eight hours on the plane and his right foot's asleep; it tingles unpleasantly every time he takes a step. He suffers through the endless customs line; he's not here on business and his boss won't let him evoke his Nation status if all he is doing is sight-seeing.

Francine is leaning against the wall outside the customs office when he finally gets released. There are dark bags circling her eyes underneath her makeup, her golden hair is mussed and tangled like she forgot to brush it that morning. She's wearing tight blue jeans and a ephemeral green shirt that shows off the elegant curve of her collarbone quite nicely.

"Drinking with Alice last night?" he teases, taking her hand. His other hand is trying to juggle his suitcase and carry on and he's off-balance. She smiles and nabs his carry on, a shoulder bag with his laptop and a novel.

"Close. Antonio and Gilbert, actually. Didn't get home until two." Her voice is husky by sleep loss and she keeps blinking her eyes, as if she can wince away her exhaustion. She adjusts the strap of Matthew's bag on her shoulder and turns purposefully towards the exit. "I want coffee. Come with me."

"No Starbucks, please," Matthew groans, pressing the palm of his hand not holding Francine's to the bridge of his nose as he is tugged behind her. "Alfred dragged me there last time I saw him and I almost entered a sugar coma."

"Psh, this is France, darling. We don't drink that swill." There is a gentle ring of laughter in her voice. The world outside is very bright, the sky brilliant azure, matching the color of Francine's eyes perfectly. There is a lingering scent of fresh-baked sweets nearby, and the fading hint of rain. The cobblestones underneath their feet are still damp.

Matthew smiles as Francine drags him towards her car, tilting his head back so he can see the brilliance of the blue, blue sky.

**{One Love}**

There is elegance in the curve of her jaw, beauty in the breeze of her loud laughter, purity in the curve of her eyes when she smiles. It is the little things that make Francine beautiful, rather than her golden hair or the flirty gleam to her blue eyes; the little details Matthew likes to think no one but himself notices.

Her palm is slick with peach-scented lotion as she slips her hand into his, comforting and as warm as summer sunshine. "Matthew," she says with a cheeky smile, and there is grace in the way she tilts her neck so she can gaze up at him.

He smiles. "You are lovely," he says. Her forehead wrinkles, ripples on the water, as she raises her eyebrows at him, affection stealing away the teasing tints. The dying evening sunlight brings more warmth to her skin, a rosy tint to her cheeks. Her hair glitters gold, and her eyes are as beautiful and pure as the sky.

"Oh you," she says fondly, resting her head against his shoulder and winding their fingers together. They stroll slowly along the sidewalk, watching the world pass them by. It's early spring and cool enough to still need a jacket, but Francine had forgotten hers, and so Matthew's favorite crimson overcoat is wrapped around her shoulder (she'll never tell him she left it at home on purpose).

They have no plans, they have no destination. They walk, footfalls matching the others, hands interwoven. There is gentle chatter of other people going about their daily lives as they pass by, meaningless snippets that mean nothing when they are as wrapped up in each other as they are.

"We need to think about dinner," Francine murmurs as they lazily turn right and meander down another side path. Matthew smiles, trailing his fingers through her silky hair but doesn't reply; she'll keep talking if he doesn't and her voice is as pure as a trickling creek in the cool air. "I was thinking pancakes."

"...Are you serious?"

Francine shrugs; her shoulder is bony as it nudges against his arm. There is laughter tugging at the edges of her lips, a kind light in her eyes as she glances up at them. "Why not. We're young. We can get away with it."

"If I get a heart attack before I hit thirty, I'll blame you and your delicious pancakes," Matthew tells her, dropping her hand and wrapping his arm around her waist, pulling her closer. They are slowing, almost stopped in front of a coffee shop Matthew's brother Alfred is particularly fond of.

There is an old woman sitting at the window seat by the flower pot overflowing with chrysanthemums, and something in her face relaxes, wrinkles smoothening out into a broad smile as Matthew kisses the top of Francine's head. Matthew wonders if she is thinking back to her own romances, but then Francine is pulling him into the coffee shop so they can share a cup of tea.

As she yanks him by the old woman, Matthew hears the faintest whisper of "_love while you are young and all of is grand"_ and all he can do is agree. What he has may not last forever, but he'll hold onto it while it does.

* * *

**Author's Note**

**Playing With Fire - Ovi**

**Europe's Skies - Alexander Rybak**

**One Love - Bob Marley**


	7. Rytm

{Man Down}

Beads of sweat wind their way down Lithuania's sallow face and sharp cheekbones. One drop lingers at the edge of his gaping mouth. They mingle with the tears eking a path through the grime settled on top of his skin. His sword is shaking, knuckles white. There's a gash on his side – not bleeding, because this is Lithuania, not someone fragile, mortal – but the man sprawled in front of him has more than a gash, and more than enough blood to paint a picture of a forest fire, a war, spilling out onto the field.

"Oh god," Lithuania breathes, eyes wide. His pupils are so small that the emerald green of his irses nearly swallows them entirely. "Oh god, oh god, oh god..." He's starting to hyperventilate, breathing fast and what little color he has draining from his skin. Poland doesn't know what to do, but the sword, flashing silver in the golden sunlight, is worrisome, so he reaches out and gently tries to loosen Lithuania's grip around the hilt. Lithuania doesn't even notice, doesn't react to the touch of his partner's hands on his, so lost is he in the horror of what he's done.

"Liet," Poland says, reassuring, trying to not sound panicked as the tremor in Lithuania's bony hands spreads to shake his wiry, rake-thin body, "Calm down. This man was a scout. Or something. We're in a war, Liet, and he's an enemy – if you didn't kill him, he'd kill our people."

Lithuania isn't listening. He's chewing his lip – his self destructive habit, the one Poland loathes but can't complain about, because if he tries to speak about it, Lithuania will surely bring up the slight scratches along his arms and the way he picks at scabs, over and over, until they leave near-invisible scars on his pale flesh. "I wonder whose he was," Lithuania mutters, staring at the body with eyes blown wide with fear. "Sweden's? Could be; he's blonde and looks hungry. Or Russia's. Can't be from the Ottoman Empire..." He shudders, a full body wracking down to the marrow of his bones, and Poland drops the sword onto rusty grass and reaches out to steady him.

"Lithuania," he snaps, dragging his partner down his knees because he looks like he's going to swoon any moment now, "You have got to listen to me." Lithuania's eyes glitter with tears and he looks so skeletal, so scrawny, not at all like a century-years old entity, and Poland remembers how kind and unsuited for the world Lithuania really is. He brushes a strand of greasy brown hair away from Lithuania's eyes, and that simple gesture seems to pull Lithuania further back into reality. "We live in a dangerous time," Poland says, speaking as if to a child, gently and without blame, or anger.

Fragile, shattered, Lithuania stares back at him. "But...It wasn't even a fair fight," he whimpers, clutching at Poland's wrist. "I just...cut him down. He didn't have a chance. Time to run or fight or anything. I was just..." He inhales, exhales, coughs, spits. "What if he had a wife or kids?"

"He might have not, he looks kind of young." Poland realizes a heartbeat later that that was most likely not the best thing to say in response; Lithuania's tremors worsen and when Poland's hand slips down to Lithuania's grime-encrusted neck, he can feel his partner's heartbeat jumping, far too fast.

"Breathe," he says again, and repeats it until Lithuania squeezes his eyes shut and heaves in a shuddering breath. "Liet..." He strokes his hair again, and searches for words that will not worsen the situation. "It's okay," he says finally. "Or, maybe not really," he adds, "But you know as well as I do that if any other country caught one of our men, they'd kill them too. Some of them more brutally."

Lithuania gazes at him like he holds all the secrets to the universe, like he can fix this with a word or two. And Poland despises himself, for he doesn't know the answers and the world is cruel and there is really nothing he can do. "But I killed him," Lithuania says, voice cracking, and even though this is not the first man Lithuania has killed, nor shall it be the last, there is something different with this one, something that has shot right through Lithuania and pierced him right in the soul, and there is truly nothing at all Poland can do that will ever mend this or make it better.

{Ho Hey}

Lithuania prefers the shadows found in the folds of rich curtains in the corners of the room to being the center of attention – Poland's total opposite in that regard. Lithuania is quiet and reserved, calm and serene. Most of the other nations call their Commonwealth merely Poland, passing over the other half of it entirely. Lithuania never acts like it bothers him, and maybe it doesn't. Poland is the face of their partnership, and it is his noblity and his kings that rule, but they both know that nothing would be accomplished at all without Lithuania.

Lithuania is the one who insists, in his peaceful, gentle way, on checks on the monarchy, and on religious tolerance for all. Lithuania oversees the establishment of the Parliament, the Senate, and the election of the king. Lithuania stands over the king, holding the tray with the pen and the bottle of ink, as the monarch signs the document agreeing to respect the rights of citizens. Lithuania plans and leads the battles, the defense against Sweden, Russia and the Ottoman Empire. Lithuania protects Poland, shielding his immortal body from all harm during the battles, and then cleans up the mess Poland leaves behind him when they return home and Poland sheds his clothes like leaves in autumn, dropping them behind him on the cold, stone hallways and leaving Lithuania to gather them up and mend the damage by flickering candlelight later in the evening, when Poland himself has slipped into sleep.

He wonders sometimes, when the sun is setting and catching on the lighter shades of chestnut in Lithuania's hair as he perches on an uncomfortable chair, flipping through a dusty tome and looking so ancient and wise, why Lithuania bothers. He shakes the thought away as soon as it appears; he doesn't like to dwell on such things, so he's never truly reached the end of that idea, never worked out the reasons why. To Poland, it doesn't matter much, as they are partners. Poland does the job of being the face of their country, plays the celebrity and pushes his people into power, while Lithuania prefers to manipulate behind the scenes, so cleverly and skillfully that no one ever suspects the near-silent boy with the long brown hair who stands half in shadows at formal events, uncomfortable in his stuffy formal garb.

Maybe Poland takes Lithuania for granted. It was never something he thought much of, in those days.

Now, hundreds of years later, when he closes his eyes and tilts his head back, he can still recall the glimpses of warm summer sunlight and Lithuania's scarred, hard hands lifting him gingerly to his feet, and the way it was more a smile in his vivid green eyes rather than on his lips. In those days, he had a thousand such moments, and so did not assign much importance to them, didn't exert himself trying to memorize the way that Lithuania would heistantingly tuck his hair behind his ears, or the sure movements of his hands as he assisted Poland in the fields. He regrets that now, but then, in those long lost days, those moments happened daily.

He hasn't had a day like that in years.

Poland can still feel the caress of Russia's warm breath in his ear, shocking against the biting chill of that frozen winter, when the sky was as gray as stone and the snow fell as silently as Lithuania's footsteps, those nights when he couldn't sleep and would skulk around their home.

_You don't deserve him_.

The truth is bitter, disgusting, burning in the back of his throat, for Russia was right, Russia knew the truth. Russia saw Poland's unworthiness and stole Lithuania away and returned him broken, beaten, flinching away every time Poland reached out a hand to help him.

Lithuania has never been, and never will be, the center of attention. Like Canada, he is an afterthought, a fleeting breath of wind, and Poland regrets for having pushed him into that position, so long ago.

{Restless}

The fields of grain sway in the gentle breeze, glowing a dull, beaten gold under the summer sun. Autumn is coming, and fast; Lithuania can already smell the chill of night-frost on the air when he wakes in the morning. He tightens the tie wrapped around his long hair, pushes his bangs away from his face, and swings his scythe. He can't see Poland anywhere in the endless field – Poland doesn't like the work of farming; he complained bitterly when Lithuania insisted that slavery was immoral and abolished it. It means there is more he has to do himself, and Poland has never been one for labor.

Lithuania's scythe flashes again as he swings it downwards, face shining with sweat. He adds the grain to the slowly filling basket strapped to his back. He and Poland do not need to eat, don't need substence in the same way humans do – it's an indulgence, not a necesity – so this harvest will go mainly to trade and be exported to the neighboring nations.

_Swish. Swish._ He takes a few steps forward, stuffs the grain into his basket. He's falling into the rhythm, and the movement comes easily now – smooth, unhindered; he can ignore the strain in his back and the dull ache in his hands.

Poland chooses that moment to pop his head out of the field, grass tangled in his unbrushed hair and dirt smudged across his nose. He's so freckled that his face appears to be one enormous freckle, broken by tiny patches of sunburnt skin. He beams, shoving his hair from his face. Lithuania doesn't notice, concentrating on his work.

_Swish, swish._

"Liet!" Poland calls, cupping his hands around his mouth, "I'm bored!"

_Swish, swish_. Lithuania's hands still, and he looks up. His lips are curved upwards, but the smile doesn't quite reach his eyes – he's annoyed, frustrated, although he'll deny it if asked. "Well, I'm working," he says, and his voice is gentle, but there's enough steel in them that Poland slouches back and disappears again under the cover of wheat.

_Swish, swish_. Poland doesn't fully understand the responsibility that work and being a Nation entails. He fights wars, but he goes about it as if he is playing a game, as if there is no risk of anyone getting hurt, or dying. They do not have that risk – Nations are above such petty things as bleeding or falling ill – but Lithuania sometimes wonders if the falling of a fellow soldier bothers Poland at all, or if he is merely oversensitive and all Nations react to death in the same manner that Poland does.

He can see the glimmer of Poland's blonde hair above the slight quivering of the remaining grain, and the glitter of Poland's eyes, watching him. Lithuania sighs, and hangs his scythe from his belt. He tightens his grip on the basket's straps, and tries to banish all weariness from his voice. "I think a storm's rolling in; we should head back." He thinks no such thing, but he is weak, and he gives in far too easily. Poland fairly skips over to him, catching at his hands and pulling him towards their house – a small, well built affair crafted from stone and thatched with waterproof reeds, stolen from Sweden.

Lithuania quells the part of him that wishes to grab Poland by the shoulders and shake him until he understands just how difficult the real world is, and tries to focus instead on the laughter on his friend's face, but his smile feels too brittle and he feels too fragile.

He wonders how much longer he can last in this monotony, and has no answer.

* * *

**Author's note**

**Songs:**

**Man Down - Rihanna cover by Walk Off the Earth**

**Oh Hey - the Lumineers**

**Restless - Switchfoot**

**All parts take place during the time of the Commonwealth. Rytm is Polish. **


End file.
